


We Search and Search to Find

by weathervaanes



Series: where our heads lived and were [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Djinni & Genies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:38:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weathervaanes/pseuds/weathervaanes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To Derek, the world just isn't right.</p><p>-0-</p><p>When Derek wakes up, he has a warm body curled up against him.  It takes him only seconds to dig his nose into the neck in front of him, soak in the scent of his mate, and relax further into his mattress.</p><p>He can feel the warmth of the sun from the large window streaming over his back and his arm, and he tightens it around Stiles, snuggling closer.  It’s been weeks and now—he’s home.  He’s home and in bed and Stiles is rolling over and kissing him good morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Search and Search to Find

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 of the three-part sequel to Dulcis Memoria. Hope you enjoy!

When Derek wakes up, he has a warm body curled up against him.  It takes him only seconds to dig his nose into the neck in front of him, soak in the scent of his mate, and relax further into his mattress.

He can feel the warmth of the sun from the large window streaming over his back and his arm, and he tightens it around Stiles, snuggling closer.  It’s been weeks and now—he’s home.  He’s home and in bed and Stiles is rolling over and kissing him good morning.

“Hi,” Stiles sighs, eyes still closed.  ”Mm, you feel good.”  He nuzzles closer, kissing along Derek’s jaw.  ”Laura’s still sleeping; we could grab a quickie in the shower before I have to leave for work.”

Derek grins.  It’s not even a question.

When he stumbles out of the shower, feeling loose-limbed and content, he dresses slightly slower than Stiles does but finds his way towards Laura’s room, shoving open the door and nearly jumping onto her bed, scooping her into his arms.

“Daddy!” she wails, giggling.

“Good morning, pup,” he greets her, carrying her towards the stairs.  ”Papa’s gonna make breakfast.”

“Pancakes?”  Her eyes light up, and her little hands grab onto his shirt.  ”Can we have pancakes, Daddy, pleeeeeeease?”

“Sure, princess, we can have pancakes.”

Laura eats her breakfast and hums to Beta, who she has plopped up on the counter.

“Hey,” Stiles chides as he plops another pancake on a plate, “tortoise on the floor.”

Laura pouts shamelessly and Stiles raises an eyebrow before he sighs. “Fine. Eat your food.”

Derek laughs and wraps his arms around Stiles' middle. “You'll spoil her rotten.”

“She can't rot,” Stiles shrugs. “She's perfect.”

Derek buries his nose in Stiles' neck and breathes in. It feels like he could stay there forever.

 

* * *

 

“Wake up, sleepy head,” a voice gripes at him, teasing but impatient.  ”C’mon, we don’t have all day and Mom has been waiting for you downstairs for twenty minutes.”

There’s something familiar about the voice, something tugging on the back of his mind, and he’s pulled out of the sleep by the realization that even though his brain is aware of the fact that he’s heard that voice at least once a week every day for his entire life, it feels in his heart like something to be startled about.

He sits up, half stunned and completely confused, and looks at his sister.

Her hair is down to her waist and a streak of red runs along it. _I'm young, Derek and vibrant, I can paint my hair like an 8th grader if I damn well please._

“Mom is going to beat your ass,” she says tugging his hand.  ”Get the hell up.”

He does, pushing back his shock, and looks around the room.  ”Stiles?” he asks as he grabs a pair of jeans and heads towards his closet for a shirt.

“Downstairs with my namesake,” she sighs smugly.  ”And our mother.  Who is waiting to take you shopping, Derek, I swear to God just grab something it’s not like you’re going to be wearing it that much today.”

Derek frowns, trying to remember--oh, yes, of course.  His anniversary with Stiles.  They’re renewing their wedding vows.  He looks down at the ring of his left hand, twists it, and ignores how it feels strange on his hand, like it’s a new piece of jewelry.

Stiles kisses him good morning and Laura—his daughter and not his sister—is much too busy sitting on her father's shoulders. Stiles is tugging at his shoulder. “You need coffee. Your dad and my dad and I are going to get on that damn tree house today and it's going to get done. Don't stress your mom out, got it?”

Derek nods with a smirk and leans in to kiss him.  His daughter’s hands tangle in his hair, pushing and tugging as she calls, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, I’m gonna get a tree house!”

“I know, angel,” he laughs and pushes up as far as he can reach to kiss her shoulder.  ”I’ll see you later, okay?”  It occurs to him that her warm brown eyes look so much like Stiles’, like her natural father’s, and it makes his heart warm in his chest.

His mother has no patience for his faces as she makes him try on a thousand outfits until they find one she deems decent and by the time he gets home, Stiles' parents are in the kitchen fixing dinner while Stiles sits on the counter as if he were a child. He stops for a moment, thrown by how truly similar Claudia and Stiles' are, it's like he's seeing them together for the first time.

“Evening everyone,” he says with a smile.

Stiles twists. “Did you see? Told you we'd get it done!”

“And you did.” Derek nods.  “Where's Scott I didn't see him out there.”

Stiles frowns.  “Scott?”

Derek takes a step back and shakes his head. Of course Scott isn't here. He's trying to pry Melissa away from his father for the umpteenth time. Trying to stop the endless cycle and bring her home.

“Sorry,” he says, “I just thought he'd be back by now.”

“Nah, not yet.  He’ll be here next week, for the party, but he’s still, uh, dealing with stuff.”  Stiles shrugs and hops off the counter, going towards Derek and pulling him into a kiss. “Hi,” he says through a sigh against Derek’s mouth.  ”Get something nice?”

“I think you’ll like it,” Derek chuckles.

“Hm, is it tight?”

“Boys,” Claudia says with a smirk, “we may not all be werewolves, but you’re hardly in private.”

That night after everyone is gone and Laura is in bed, Derek curls into Stiles and touches him with gentle hands. It made him worry sometimes how fragile Stiles really was when put up against werewolves, how the life in him was subtle and how sometimes pressing his ear against Stiles' chest was the only way to reassure him that he had survived another day in close proximity to beasts.

“What have I got to worry about,” Stiles whispers against his ear, “when I've got you to protect me?”

It’s funny, he thinks, because he has no doubt that Stiles can protect himself except—he can’t.  Not really.  He’s just a human, nothing particularly supernatural about him, and Derek just nods against Stiles’ neck and says, “I’ll always protect you,” before he falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

“What do you think about having another kid?”

It’s late, the evening before their party, and Derek has just accepted a glass of wine from Stiles as they sit out on the front porch, looking out towards the woods.  Derek is thankful that Laura chose to live in San Francisco with her fiancé, that his parents started travelling and left the house to him, because it really does feel like home, even more so with Stiles beside him.  He can’t help but feel, especially during conversations like these, that the house plays a role in absorbing the crazy.

“I’m getting older,” Derek says quietly.  ”I mean, not too old.  But if we want to, we should do it soon.”

“Do we want to?”

Derek turns and smiles at his mate. “Yeah. Yeah I think so.”

Stiles smiles. “Well it's your turn to up front the spunk.”

Derek laughs and stands up only to kneel at Stiles' side. “You're an idiot you know that?”

Stiles sticks out his tongue. “I may be an idiot but you're mine.”

 

* * *

 

One day, Derek wakes up and forgets.  And then it happens again, the next morning, then a morning a week or so later, and a morning shortly after that too.  He makes simple mistakes, shakes his head at himself, and kisses Stiles on his way out the door.  He twirls with Laura and feeds Beta, talks on the phone with his sister and replies to texts from his parents with nonchalance, and when he crawls into bed with Stiles he feels content.

But then, every once in a while, something will pass his lips that makes him think.  Stiles will frown and remind him on the few occasions Derek doesn’t figure out his mistake himself, and Derek figures that Stiles doesn’t take stock in it, at least not all that much, but he can’t help but feel…strange.

He spends hours looking at Laura. He feels sick to think it but there's something wrong with her. There's something about when she looks at him but he can't figure it out and he wants to stop, wants to quit it, to go about his life. But there's something about looking at her, like a find-the-missing-piece puzzle when he as a child.

There’s something about her hair, he thinks.  Is she growing it out?  Did he forget to take her to get it cut?  Or is it not even that?  Her cheeks, maybe?  They look a little extra pink this morning, like Stiles let her run around outside without sunscreen, which he only does when he’s being incredibly forgetful.  Her eyes, he finally settles on.  They’re Stiles’ eyes, which makes sense, since she has his DNA, but it makes Derek feel off.  Because ultimately, he knows that Laura was born using an egg, Stiles’ sperm, and Lydia’s body, but he doesn’t remember her birth.  He doesn’t remember being in the room, doesn’t even remember bringing Laura home.  He does remember big, green eyes, blinking up at him for the first time, however, and it feels so weird that he shudders and stands up, moving away from the couch and closer to where the tortoise is munching lazily on lettuce leaves near the windows.

Stiles keeps giving him worried looks and Scott comes home with beard to tell him that he's scaring his husband and if there's something wrong with him he better get his shit together and calm down. But Derek can't calm down and it doesn't feel right making love to Stiles, not when the man's body feels like something is missing like something is gone. Like a clockwork piece whose machinery is off, silent, dead.

He shudders in bed and turns to sleep on his side but he takes a deep breath and bites his madness back when he smells the salty tears.

He turns back over and Stiles pushes his face into his pillow.  ”I could’ve sworn,” Stiles says breathily, “that you were happy.  It’s been years, Derek.  Out of everything we’ve been through together, out of everything we’ve survived and struggled through, you pick a perfectly normal time when nothing is even going wrong.  You pick now to be unsatisfied.”

“Stiles,” he mutters, “you have to know that’s not it.”

“Then what?” he demands harshly.  ”What could it possibly be?  You don’t want another kid?  Fine, we don’t have to—just tell me you aren’t sleeping with someone else.  Oh, God.”  He curls in on himself, still facing away, and his shoulders tremble.

“No. Stiles, Christ, I couldn't. I'm not unsatisfied. I just—don't you feel it too?”

“I certainly feel it now that you shudder at my touch.”

“No, it isn’t—Stiles, everything feels wrong. The way the light hits the floor downstairs in the morning, it's not the right shade; the Jeep it doesn't stutter when I try to turn it on even though you're the only one who can get it to run smoothly; when Laura smiles it doesn't reach her eyes. Stiles, can't you notice Laura's eyes?”

Stiles sits up at the same time Derek does and they face each other.  Stiles is visibly upset, but now he looks more worries about Derek than he does about the idea of Derek leaving.

“What about her eyes, Derek?” he asks.

“They’re not…right.”  He shakes his head, looks away.  ”I can’t explain it.  It’s just that everything feels wrong.”

“Your family feels wrong?” he demands, harsh and short.  ”I feel wrong?  I’ve been your mate for over a decade, Derek, and now—now what?  Now I’m not good enough for you anymore?  The daughter we raised together isn’t good enough?”

“No!” Derek insists.  He scoots closer, grabs at Stiles.  ”Stiles, I love you.”  He pushes his forehead against his husband’s.  ”I just feel like…like something isn’t right.”

“You aren’t right,” Stiles mutters.  ”You’re forgetful about the stupidest things.  What’s going on with you?  Can werewolves get Alzheimer’s?  Can 36-year-old werewolves get Alzheimer’s?”

Derek closes his eyes. “I don't know.”

He feels Stiles' hand on his shoulder and then another on his cheek. “Derek. Derek, look at me.”  Derek does and finds that Stiles' eyes are full of concern. “Is it? Something like that?”

“I don't know,” Derek chokes out and before he knows it he's wrapped up in Stiles' arms with the man's lips on his forehead.

“I'm sorry,” Stiles whispers, “I'm sorry. Don't be scared. We'll figure it out.”

 

* * *

 

Deaton gives him a clean bill of health and a pat on the shoulder, “Alright do you want my honest opinion?”

“For once in your life,” Derek sighs, “that would be helpful.”

“You've got a young kid, a… _difficult_ spouse, a difficult pack, really. And you're getting older. It's normal to…”  He hesitates.  “Crack, a bit.”

“Are you trying to tell me I'm having a mid-life crisis?”

Deaton smirks slightly.  “It’s not uncommon.  Ask your father about it, or your mother—you’re not that old yet, Derek, but you’re getting older.”

“Shouldn’t I be buying an expensive car and dressing like I’m a teenager?”

“Actually, I find your condition of misremembering things and subtle forgetfulness to be a way your mind is repressing things that may be difficult to cope with.”  He crosses his arms over his chest.  “Your daughter will be entering second grade, your husband’s father is being pushed towards retirement, your own family is further away than they have been in a number of years.  Perhaps you’ve gotten too used to your way of life and are having a hard time accepting change.”

It makes sense on the outside and it’s easy for him to believe.  So he does.

He goes home with a double-decker cheeseburger and a large order of curly fries. He pushes Stiles against the kitchen counter and sets the brown bag to one side.

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs against Stiles' lips.  “I'm sorry, it's over. I promise.”

Stiles throws his arms around Derek’s shoulders.  “Are you sure?” he asks.

Derek kisses him deeply, revels in it, in how it feels good and right and strong, and then nods when he pulls away.  “Yes,” he promises.  “I’m okay.”

He waits as Stiles eats, picks at his fries and nuzzles at his husband, and then carries him up to bed shortly after receiving a text from the Sheriff that Laura is taking a nap at his house. He doesn't think about what's missing, he focuses on what's there. Stiles is soft but solid and quiet and there, real. Stiles is real, so Derek maps him out with his fingertips and kisses him and catalogues his moans and makes a conscious effort to ignore the ever-present sense of wrong.

It feels like he falls in love with Stiles all over again.  He tries hard, works hard, makes Stiles laugh and swoon and sigh and he does all of those things himself in equal measure because he’s in love, their daughter is perfect, and suddenly Lydia’s at their front door, arms crossed over her chest, and she’s bitching about her body and how, since she doesn’t want any more kids, he and Stiles better make a decision soon about who’s popping out their next spawn.

Derek agrees because it'll make his family happy and so, of course, it'll make him happy as well. Deaton has a long talk with Lydia about carrying a wolf cub. Though there's no chance of a fetus turning in utero, it certainly isn't an easy pregnancy.

Derek is nervous and excited and even though he remembers waiting for Laura to be born, it doesn’t feel like the same thing.  He wonders if this is how it felt when Stiles was there, tending to Lydia’s every need, aware of the fact that his child was inside of her and ready to be brought into the world.

He takes it day by day.  He gets up, helps Laura get ready, makes breakfast while Stiles prepares for his day, kisses his husband and his daughter goodbye on their way to school, and then he checks on Lydia.  He spends most of his time with her actually, since he only works four days a week and only on afternoons, and so he and Lydia actually seem to grow closer.

“Remind me why we don’t usually do this,” Lydia says lazily as Derek rubs her feet.  She’s been confirmed pregnant for three weeks now, isn’t even showing, but she likes to milk it.

A memory strikes at Derek, the knowledge that there was a period of time during college—when he and Stiles weren’t actually together—that Lydia and Stiles kind of had a thing.  Physical, completely lacking any and all emotional attachment that wasn’t 100% platonic, but he recalls anger and jealousy and other hollow emotions that feel secondary.

“Please,” she sighs, “you know it’s because of Jackson.  If you were still upset about the fact that I fucked your husband, you would’ve ripped my throat out years ago.”

Derek frowns.  “There's no need to be crude.”

“You're so prudish in your old age.”

He scrunches his nose.  “Deaton said the same thing.”

“That you're a prude?”

“No,” Derek growls playfully, “that I'm getting old. I was…being an idiot, freaking Stiles out. I think… I think I'm getting better but sometimes—”

His voice fades off and Lydia touches his arm.  “What?”

He shrugs and whispers, “Sometimes everything just feels off.”

Lydia is silent for a moment, considering, and then she shrugs.  “I have days like that.”

It’s not just a day for Derek, though, it’s several.  Several days that turn into weeks that turn into months and it’s easy to run from, easy to push back because his body wants him to, his brain wants him to, and so he does, and he settles further into the couch and continues his task, ignoring everything in him that says to get up and run.

“You want this kid, don’t you?” Lydia asks idly, hand on her stomach.

His hands freeze.  “Of course I do.”

Her hand splays over her tummy and she frowns.  “Derek—”

“Of course I want him,” he says more fiercely, “or her.”  He looks down at his hands and blinks for a moment.  “I was happy to have Laura be Stiles’—he was the one who really wanted a kid, especially since he didn’t have any siblings to carry on his name, but I really…  Just as much as I love the look Stiles gets when he sees his eyes in Laura, I want to be able to feel that.”  His stomach twists.  He’s not lying.  “And I—I wonder if this wouldn’t help…fix things.”

“A kid isn't scotch tape,” Lydia snaps.  “You're not going to put your marriage on him and hope he floats.”

“I wouldn't do that.”  He leans forwards and threads his fingers through her hair.  “Please don't worry? I'm sure Deaton is right. I'm just getting old.”

“No,” Lydia says softly.  “You're not wrong. I—I notice it, Derek, in you. Like you feel…out of place.”

“Like I don't belong here,” he says just as quietly.

Lydia bites her lip and takes his hand out of her hair and holds it in both of hers.  “But, Derek…if not here then where?”

He swallows convulsively.  “That’s just it,” he mutters.  “I don’t know.”

“You can’t walk out on Stiles.  He would sooner die.”

“I don’t want to walk out on him—that’s the last thing I want.”  He sits back again and sighs.  “I want him and I want my family.  I want my life, nice and simple and normal.”

“And this doesn’t feel normal to you?  A house in a small town with a husband and two kids?”

Derek shrugs.  “I guess not.”

Lydia huffs and sits up.  “You're not very comforting.”

He smiles sadly and wraps his arms around her.  “Hey, it doesn't matter. I'm just…nuts.  Crazy old wolf. And I'm going to love this baby with everything I've got; you don't have to worry about that.”

“If there’s anything I’m worried about, that’s at the bottom of the list.”

 

* * *

 

Derek feels like he kind of fits himself inside of this world like an unwilling puzzle piece, just two or three centimeters too large, shoved into place with force, a product of frustration and anxiety.  All the same, he accepts that it’s the only place he could possibly belong.  He feels good with Stiles, maybe not perfect, but good.  He loves his pack and his daughter and he continues on, because it’s the only thing for him to do.

His parents return a month before the child is due.

They’ve redecorate the nursery, neutral colors, baby-proofed a large portion of the house, and already stocked up on diapers and other necessities.

Lydia wobbles everywhere she goes.

“This kid is going to be huge,” Laura—sister, not daughter—says with a laugh, touching Lydia’s stomach.  “Jesus, Derek, what kind of sperm are you packing?”

Stiles guffaws.

The house is full and thrumming and waiting and Derek rests his head back and closes his eyes. Everything is smooth, he tells himself, everything is right no matter how much it feels wrong to his twisted, insane self. He feels Stiles lie down beside him and turn on his side, feels Stiles' hand hovering over his shoulder.

“Derek?”

Derek doesn't open his eyes but hums in response.

“Derek. If…  If you're going to go, go before he arrives.”

Derek's eyes fly open and he sits up in bed. “ _Go_?”

Stiles doesn't look angry. He looks calm and…sad.  “I know that maybe now I sound like the crazy one. But ever since that night I've been watching—you. Waiting for things to be right again and…  I know. I know that you're unhappy. I know that—that for whatever reason, this doesn't feel right to you anymore. And, God I wish I knew why. I wish I could be whatever it is you keep looking for when you look at me. Derek.” Stiles pauses and Derek has no words as Stiles cups his cheek and offers him a broken smile.  “Derek, I love you more than anything—except my kids. So I want you to be happy. And if you have to go, then go. But do it now. Do it before it's three hearts you break.”

Derek isn’t sure what to say to that.  But he knows that he can’t leave, even if it means he’s never truly happy again, even if it means that Stiles finds someone else—he can’t leave his family.

“Responsibilities aren’t good enough reasons for you to stay when you’re just going to make us miserable,” Stiles whispers then, like he’s reading Derek’s mind.  “If you’re unhappy here, with me, with Laura, then you need to leave.  I—I can raise our son and you can go…do something else.”

“I don’t want to leave,” Derek tells him, and he isn’t sure if it’s true.  “Stiles, I love you.”

“I know you do.  But it’s not the same anymore.  You’re different and you’re confused and you’re searching for something else.  Whatever you need, I don’t think it’s here, Derek.”

Derek curls his body around Stiles and still even now he wants to stab himself for it feeling so wrong.  “I don't know where I would go.”

He can feel Stiles crying against his shoulder and holding tight like goodbye.  “That's not the brave surly Alpha I married, you know. And it's not a good enough reason to stay.”

“Stiles,” he whispers without opening his eyes, “I swear I love you.”

“And I love you,” Stiles breathes against his ear, “but you have to go now.”

 

* * *

 

He never gets the chance.  He falls asleep there, curled around Stiles, breathing against the back of his neck, and he wakes up to a group of men grabbing at him like he’s made of gold.  His first instinct is to protect the man next to him, protect Stiles, and he’s got his fangs and claws out, eyes burning red, before he can even think.

The hands disappear, and Derek’s awareness returns.  It’s dark; he’s in a large room with multiple bodies lined up, strung up on racks with their arms feeding blood into tubes, and when he listens, he only hears a few strong heartbeats—those of the men in front of him.

He goes to check his arms for similar tubes, the phantom pull of a wolfsbane-coated needle making him itch, but it’s already been pulled out.  These men aren’t attacking him; they’re rescuing him.  And then one of them says, “David, it’s Hale.”

And Derek runs.

At least he tries to, but his legs feel like paper under him and he crumples like a child learning to walk. The men grab him roughly and he growls, tries to claw at them with all he has, and there's an arm around his neck.

“You'd better fucking relax, Hale,” the voice rough in his ear says with strained calm.  “My tolerance of Madam Argent is thin as it is; I ain't gotta do this for her, you understand? You've been out cold for a while, Fido; I can take you with my bare human arms so take it easy before you hurt yourself.”

It’s as if everything comes back in a rush.  He knows the Madam Argent the man is talking about isn’t Victoria—she’s dead.  Allison, he thinks, and it’s obviously plausible.  If he went missing a fair enough time ago, she could have used old hunter contacts to get the word out. 

Then he starts to remember things, smaller things.  Like Laura’s eyes.  They’re meant to be green.  She’s adopted, the product of magic from Stiles and a witch, and that’s another thing.  Stiles is magic.  Stiles is a spark.  And they named their daughter Laura after Derek’s dead sister.

He's never met Claudia Stilinski but he's seen a photograph. It was framed by Melissa McCall and placed in the living room of the home she shares with Stiles' father.  His family is dead.  His brothers and other sister are dead, his parents.  His uncle is still alive, the only one left, and he—

He’s dirty and sore and he has a full beard.  He’s been there for months.  His hair is long, his body weakened, and the men have shoved him into a cage like he’s a dog.  The wolfsbane they’ve poured down his throat, infused into cold water, is flooding through his veins too quickly for him to do anything about it, but he’s half shifted, twitching and moaning and still receiving aftershocks of memories.

Stiles.  The real Stiles.  So what the fuck was the fake Stiles?  What was the fake world?  And what’s become of it?

It's hours of pain and the jostling of whatever vehicle he's in before the doors open. The hunter is young, younger than Derek but not by much. He's not cut out for the job.  Derek can tell just by glancing at him.

“Brought you some food.”

Derek stares at him and then at the food in his hand and says nothing.

“I'd eat it slow,” the man says.  “The Djinn had your system full stopped for however long it had you.”

Derek blinks up at him.  “Djinn?” he asks.

“We’ve been hunting it for months.  This is the longest place it’s ever stayed in; it’s remarkable, really.  I guess we know now that it’s because of you.”

“What is it?”

“It drinks blood; knocks victims out and keeps them in a fantasy world.”  He looks down at Derek’s plate.  “I won’t insult you by asking you what it was like.”

“You’re probably the only one,” Derek mutters.

“Word is you're dead. But still, Argent took a risk emailing your picture around. Put her trust in us and we appreciate that. Old families—well, whatever. Point is, we'll deliver you to her and the rest is up to them.”  He points at the food.  “Eat.  Slowly.  If you die on the way there, we’ll have hell to pay.”

Derek eats.  He shifts when he feels strong enough, lets his wolf crawl around.  He fits more comfortably on paws than he does as a human, and if the hunters flinch slightly and double check the lock when they notice his change, Derek doesn’t think growling a little bit is too mean.

He doesn’t sleep very much on the drive.  He doesn’t know where they are, how long it’s been, and he thinks that if he asks, it’ll only hurt too much.  There’s nothing he can do to go back and change it so he has to move forward.  To Stiles.


End file.
